Dancing Ghosts
by greeneyedandfreckled
Summary: Crying over me, bourgeois boy? she snickered, a devilish smirk played across her lips. "You didn't have to die," he whispered to her, as he reached for her hand and caught thin air. / One shot for E/É. Rated T because, well, I cried writing it and I think that counts for something.


**A/N: Second one tonight, and I actually really, really like this one. If you could give it a read & a quick review, I'd be really grateful. Thanks!**

* * *

He had watched her pull the gun to her chest, and he screamed her name when the soldier fired. He screamed her name, and she would never hear it.

He watched her eyes close, singing about rain and flowers, and telling Marius Pontmercy (_of all people_) that she was a little bit in love with him. He watched her chest rise and fall, rise and fall, until it fell and could no longer rise.

And he could only stand there. A silence screamed at him from inside his head, and he wanted to _kill_ Marius for letting her take that bullet for him.

It was only when he felt a hand on his shoulder that Enjolras was distracted from his silent apologies and fantasies about what could have been. He looked up, and saw Combeferre beside him. His friend nodded towards the ever-sleeping girl, and they went to Marius, to take her from his arms. She was surprisingly light, so Combeferre took all of her, and Enjolras watched as he placed her broken body inside the Café. He wished to follow, and to sit with her until this whole damn thing was over, but he knew his place. He had a revolution to lead, after all.

So, it was not until later that night that he crept into the Café, and was surprised to find that someone else had wished to see her. Their second volunteer (the one who wasn't a spy, that is) sat in a chair next to a small round table and looked up when the door creaked open. He nodded at Enjolras and his eyes fell back to Éponine. Enjolras walked closer, but still stood several feet away from her lifeless body.

"She is young," the Monsieur said after a moment, "too young for death to have taken her. I have a daughter that is not far in age from her, I suspect…. Did you know her?" He was looking at Enjolras, and Enjolras shook his head.

"Not well," he admitted. "I know her name was Éponine, and that she knew these streets better than the back of her own hand. I know she went many days unfed, unheard, unseen. I know that she did not deserve to die here, like this."

"That boy out there, did he love her?"

"Not in the way she loved him, I'm afraid." _But I did, _he wanted to say,_ I do. _"She never did choose those who wanted to choose her." He said it bitterly, and thought of nights on an empty street, when he had offered her help and she had simply laughed and slipped away into the darkness. A shadow, never to be seen or touched if she didn't want it, and she seldom did.

"Whatever pain or hunger she felt in life, she feels no more," the Monsieur said to him in earnest. "She is with God, and nothing here can touch her. Remember that, should you feel any guilt. Now, I think you should try and sleep. I doubt there will be much chance for rest tomorrow." He gripped Enjolras' shoulder tightly, and then made a quiet exit.

He sat in the Monsieur's forgotten chair, and thought of his words. He could almost see her, clean faced and fed, as she laughed without fear and smiled down on him.

_ Crying over me, bourgeois boy?_ she snickered, a devilish smirk played across her lips.

"You didn't have to die," he whispered to her, as he reached for her hand and caught thin air.

'_Course I did! How else was I supposed to go? You really think I'd let myself starve on these streets? Nah, the bullet was better. Faster. Less pain_. She smirked at him and he felt her dance around him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, tears rolling off of his cheeks, "I'm sorry that your life was less than you deserved." At this, she laughed. She was centimeters from his face, and she was mocking him.

_ Don't pretend to know me or my life, bourgeois boy. My life was what it was for whatever reason, but I found my way 'round all right. _He bowed his head, not bearing to look at her anymore, at either of them. The Éponine that was there and the Éponine that was not. He felt a ghost of a small hand touch his chin, and lift his eyes.

_ Don't fret, _she said, _you'll be here soon enough, and you can make up for it then, yeah? No use cryin' over something that can't be fixed. It isn't like before, you see, because I haven't gone anywhere you can't follow. Even when you can't see me, or hear me, you better believe I'm standin' right next to you._

"I'm going to die tomorrow. I have to. We're the only ones left, and they're bigger." He doesn't know why he's telling her this. She never cared much about their cause in life, so why would she now?

_ Oui, M'sieur, they are bigger. But you're faster, and a lot less easily spooked. And there ain't such a thing as dyin'. You just close your eyes, and when you open them, you're somewhere else, somewhere better. I'll find you. I'll find all of them, and you. _

That was when she left him.

* * *

He and Grantaire are backed up against the wall. Everyone but them, fallen and gone. Their hands are clasped tightly together, and when the bullets pierce his jacket, he feels himself falling and he closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he's not bleeding anymore, and there are no French soldiers standing above him. Instead, there's her. Her warm eyes are looking down into his and she's smiling bigger than ever, and there aren't any teeth missing anymore. There is no longer emptiness in her eyes, but a playfulness and a humor he had rarely glimpsed in life.

"You see, M'sieur? I told you I'd find you!" she laughs, and tugs him to his feet.

_ You see, I told you so!_ she sings into his ear, _There's lots of things I know. 'Ponine, she knows her way around._


End file.
